Hush Hush #2

by Anneliese Vandell

  Riley glances up at the customer, who is steadily inching closer to us—a painstaking attempt to listen in on the conversation. Riley steps out from behind the register and takes my arm. He leads me deep into the stacks, to the back of the bookstore. Back here, the tall bookshelves reach all the way up to the ceiling, muffling the sound of our voices.

  “Do you think Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne are really capable of kidnapping?” Riley whispers.

  “At this point,” I reply, my mind flashing back to Mrs. Hawthorne’s infuriated expression in the art gallery, “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  My stomach churns painfully. I press my eyes closed tight, but the tears start to fall anyway. If something did happen to the Benzes, could I deal with it? Could I live with myself?

  I feel myself being encircled by a pair of strong arms. The soft, citrusy scent of Riley’s aftershave envelops me. I melt into his embrace. As I lean against his chest, I listen to the steady sound of his heartbeat, hoping that it will somehow slow my own.

  “My parents might know something. I’ll ask them,” Riley says. “Hell, maybe Eric and Kim are even with them now. Maybe they’re drinking chicory coffee and complaining about the price of crawfish as we speak.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I’ll look into it,” promises Riley. He starts to say something, then hesitates.

  I pull away from him. “What?”

  His eyes are wide as he looks at me.

  “I hate that you’re involved with all of this,” he admits. “You need to be careful, April. I’ve only just got you back after all these years. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”

  I’m touched by the sincerity in his voice.

  “I won’t let them hurt me. I promise,” I say vehemently. “I won’t let them win.”

  There’s a soft bell as the shop’s front door swings open. Riley glances up toward the sound.

  “I should get back to minding the store,” he says distractedly. His eyes flick back down toward me. “Are you going back to your hotel now? What’s your plan?”

  I stare at him, dazed. The plan originally was to visit the Benzes, learn something useful, and act on that information. But that plan turned to ashes the moment I saw the fire. So what’s next?

  As if on its own accord, my hand moves to my purse.

  “I have to make a call,” I tell him.

  He gives me a final squeeze and then walks me back up to the front of the store. The bearded man is lingering near the register, waiting to pay for his book. He eyes me beadily as I open the front door.

  “April,” Riley whispers before I cross the threshold.

  I turn.

  “Be careful.”

  I nod. “I will.”

  The door clangs shut behind me as I step out onto the sidewalk. Compared to the cozy dim light of the bookstore, the street is blinding. I pace down the block, finding refuge beneath the shadow of a large oak tree. I slip my phone out of my purse.

  There are two messages waiting for me on the screen.

  The first: Your hot body has been on my mind all day. It’s the only thing keeping me going today.

  The second: I’m in the mood for cajun food tonight. Come out with me, I’ll take you to Cafe Beauregarde. Finest blue crab beignets in NOLA.

  I stare at Liam’s message, my heart thumping wildly. What kind of day have you had, exactly? I think to myself.

  With a chill, I’m reminded of the possibility that Liam may have played a role in the fire. After all, I heard him make that initial phone call, demanding to learn who had been talking about the “second account.” And he strikes me as the kind of man who sees things through.

  At this point, anything seems possible.

  I should be frightened, but there’s a curious part of me that still yearns to see him, to say yes, absolutely, let’s go to dinner. I could ask him what’s been keeping him so busy all day. I want to look into those blue eyes of his and see if I can find some truth in them.

  But no, I can’t. Not tonight, anyway—it’s too soon. I need some time to process all of this. The Hawthornes are quickly revealing just how dangerous they really are. If I’m going to keep moving forward, I need time to regroup.

  My fingers trembling, I tap out my response.

  I can’t, sorry. Family plans tonight, and there’s no way I can get out of them.

  Liam’s response comes back within seconds.

  Fine. Tomorrow night, then. Seven o’clock.

  I pause, unsure what to say. Would that give me enough time? What would Miranda do in my situation?

  I dial her number quickly, and to my relief, she answers immediately.

  “What’s going on, doll?” she says cheerily. She seems to be in a better mood by now, at least. Thank goodness for small favors.

  “How was that pina colada?” I ask nervously. I begin walking down the sidewalk, back toward my car. The oak trees cast dark, leafy shadows across my path.

  “It was fabulous, thank you for asking,” she says. “It made all of my problems just melt away. And you? Have you come around since our conversation this morning?”

  “Well,” I say, tugging at a strand of my hair, “here’s the thing…”

  And in a long gust of breath, I tell her everything: about Eric and Kimberly Benz and the obvious fear in their eyes. About driving up to the Benzes’ house and finding it consumed in flames. About the confrontation with Mrs. Hawthorne at the art gallery. About how she already doesn’t trust me—and never will.

  I wait for a response from Miranda, some kind of advice that might magically turn around this bleak situation, but I’m met with only silence.

  I come to a halt. “Miranda? Are you still there?”

  “I’m here. I’m just thinking,” she says in a low voice. “This is bad news, April. This is really bad.”

  “I know.” My stomach churns.

  “That’s what happened with Kevin. He started to suspect that something wasn’t quite right,” Miranda says. “It’s happened before to me. You can usually see the skepticism in their eyes before they even realize it themselves, and that’s when you know it’s time to bail. But I’ve never had a mark flat-out tell me that she doesn’t trust me.”

  “Oh.” I can feel a hard, painful lump growing in the back of my throat. I try to swallow it down, but it doesn’t budge. “But there’s got to be some kind of contingency plan, right? Right?”

  It seems too unfair, that suddenly the scheme we’ve set into motion could collapse as easily as a house of cards. The possibility that the Hawthornes could evade my grasp is enough to send my mind reeling.

  But I can’t let that happen. They have to pay.

  She pauses. “Well, there is an idea I’ve had in the back of my head for a few days. A last-ditch option, if you will. You’re not going to like it.”

  “I’ll take it. Anything.”

  “If we do this, you have to do exactly what I say. No deviations. No questions. Understood?”

  “Of course. Absolutely.” My heart is pounding with excitement.

  “You said Liam asked you to dinner tomorrow night?”

  “Yes. Seven o’clock at Cafe Beauregarde.”

  “Text him back. Tell him you’ll go.”

  “And then what?”

  “Wait for my instruction.”

  9

  The next twenty-four hours seem to melt into a blur. I spend most of this time in my hotel room, rummaging distractedly through my clothes, plucking dresses from the wardrobe and holding them up to the light before tossing them to the floor.

  I feel restless. Unmoored. I don’t know what Miranda has planned for my date with Liam. I know that she and I both share the same goal, but still I can’t shake this uneasy feeling of foreboding.

  By the time the following evening arrives, I’ve tried on every dress I own—twice. I’ve finally settled on a sleek, strapless black dress with a scalloped hem. The dress is a little tight around the chest, pushing my breasts upward
. A bra isn’t necessary, and per Liam’s rule, I’m not wearing any panties—meaning that underneath the thin fabric of this dress, I’m stark naked.

  He’ll approve, I’m sure, I think to myself as I leave the hotel. There’s a nervous flutter in my chest. But whether it’s from my choice of attire or from my apprehension about the evening, I can’t tell.

  Liam is waiting for me when I arrive at Cafe Beauregarde. The maître d’ leads me to him, weaving expertly between the linen-draped tables. Candles dot each table; the white light reflects off the guests’ wine and water glasses, giving the room an ethereal, magical quality. A live jazz band plays in the corner of the room, and the sounds of the music mingle with the soft murmur of the crowd.

  When we reach Liam’s table at the back of the restaurant, he stands to plant a kiss on the side of my cheek. The stubble on his jaw grazes softly against my skin. I let myself linger there for a moment, breathing in the heady, musky scent of his cologne.

  When we break apart, he gives a nod to the maître d’, excusing him. Liam places a hand on the small of my back, guiding me to my seat.

  I scoot in my chair, tucking my legs beneath the safe, reassuring modesty of the white linens. I place my purse on the empty chair to my left, and then glance at the ornately carved room divider behind us. It obscures us from the view of the other patrons in the restaurant.

  “Cozy table. Very private,” I note. “Why do I have the feeling this wasn’t a coincidence?”

  He laughs and winks at me. His hand slips beneath the table, finding my bare knee.

  “You can’t even begin to imagine what I’m planning to do with you this evening,” he murmurs.

  His lips curl into a smirk as his hand begins to trail up my leg.

  How is it possible, this captivating effect he has on me? The moment he puts his hands on me, it’s as if an enchantment takes hold. Suddenly, the world dissolves away and all I can focus on is the heat of his body, the urgency of his touch.

  “So enlighten me,” I breathe out.

  Liam leans forward and speaks softly into my ear. “I’m going to begin by taking off that dress with my teeth.”

  His hand slips between my thighs, brushing against my lips with a featherlight touch. My back begins to arch as an excited shiver runs down my spine.

  “Then I’m going to tie your wrists to my cross, and one ankle—but just one. Because when I fuck you, I want your leg on my shoulder. Oh, you’ll be sore in the morning.”

  He slips a finger inside me, smiling at my involuntary gasp of pleasure. His finger curls, moving up and down, stroking every inch of me.

  I let out a shuddering sigh as he moves his hand forward, exploring me more deeply. Little ripples of rapture begin to spread through my body, traveling northward, making me lightheaded.

  “It was clear from your last training session that you need to work on your flexibility,” he continues. “Tonight, I’m going to stretch you as wide as you can go. And then the next night, and the night after that, until you’re doing splits while we fuck.”

  “And what happens after that?” I whisper.

  “Then you’ll be begging me for new ways to make you sore.”

  My mouth drops open. Liam watches me hungrily, his eyes burning into me. His smirk grows wider as his fingers continue to work their magic on me, heightening my rapture more and more until I am nearly pushed to the edge—

  “Can I bring the lady a drink?” asks a sudden voice.

  My head jerks up. An outcome of being obscured from view, I suppose, is that it goes both ways; our waiter has seemingly appeared out of nowhere. He looks down pleasantly at us.

  “She’ll have a glass of the Shiraz. Same as I’m having,” Liam says, gesturing towards his own glass of wine.

  His face is a stone, giving no indication that he’s inserting a second finger into me as he speaks. A second gasp catches in my throat; I have to bite my lip to prevent myself from causing a scene.

  “Very good. I’ll return shortly with your drink, miss,” says the waiter, giving a quick bow before departing.

  I turn to Liam, my heart pounding.

  “Do you think he knew what we were doing?” I ask breathlessly.

  He smirks. “Not in the slightest,” he replies. “But I can make sure he does, if you like.”

  In goes a third finger, adding the element of increased pressure to my ebbing ecstasy. The feeling is enthralling, exhilarating; it’s like he’s stretching me from the inside out.

  I cover my mouth with my hand to prevent from moaning out loud. Liam notices and he laughs softly.

  “Is that what you’d like? To have me make you scream in the middle of this restaurant?” he murmurs with a smile.

  I shake my head frantically. I’ll admit—it is exciting, to have him touch me like this with so many people nearby. But I don’t think I would be able to show my face in this city ever again if I made a loud, passionate moan in front of everyone.

  I look out at the assorted guests of the restaurant—the old ones and the young ones, the ones sipping thousand-dollar scotch, the ones with glittering rings stacked on their fingers—the mere thought of all those faces turning toward me is enough to make my face burn. I can just imagine their looks of shock, seeing me in the corner with Liam’s hand between my legs.

  “Your face is beet red. Did you know that?” Liam says, sounding amused.

  The waiter comes by with my glass of wine. I grab it and quickly take a huge gulp. The waiter flashes a bewildered look at me, but quickly recovers—it lasts no more than a second, and once again he’s pure professionalism.

  “Shall I tell you about our dinner specials this evening?” he says.

  “Please,” says Liam, withdrawing his hand from between my thighs. He nonchalantly takes a sip of his wine.

  I try to pay attention to the waiter, but my heart is pounding so powerfully that I can feel it in my ears. I take another sip of wine, more slowly this time, and make an effort to calm myself—but as I begin to reclaim my presence of mind, I find my thoughts returning to Miranda. And her “instructions.”

  Whatever that means.

  I slip my hand into my purse and steal a quick glance at my phone, expecting to see a text message or two from her. But there’s nothing. No messages. Not even a missed call.

  “Expecting a call?” Liam says.

  I look up abruptly. Liam gazes at me with a curious, slightly annoyed expression. I turn towards the waiter, or rather towards the place where he used to be—apparently he left at some point during my distraction. Liam must have ordered for us both.

  “Sorry,” I say, putting my phone away hastily. “Family stuff.”

  “They seem to be demanding a lot of your time and attention this week, aren’t they?”

  “Well, you know how it is with family,” I say vaguely.

  Liam laughs. “More than most.”

  I wait for him to elaborate, but he just picks up his wine glass and swirls it gently, staring into the red bottom.

  “You know, I saw the oddest thing when I was passing through Lakeview yesterday,” I say slowly, trying to keep the nervous tremble out of my voice. So far, so good.

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  Liam’s pale gaze shifts toward me. I pause, searching his eyes for any indication that he knows what I’m about to say. But they’re blank, impassive.

  “I was driving down Vicksburg Street,” I continue, “and there was a house completely consumed by fire. The flames went up to here.” I stretch my arm far above my head to demonstrate. “The whole sky was filled with black smoke. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Liam blinks. “Vicksburg Street, you said?”

  Am I imagining it, or is there a glimmer of surprise in Liam’s blue eyes? But the emotion, whatever it is, lasts only a moment before he returns to his standard stoic expression.

  “Have you heard about it?” I ask.

  “I think I heard something about a fire on the news, but I didn’t reali
ze it was in Lakeview,” he says. He brings his glass to his lips and speaks into it, almost more to himself than to me. “Interesting.”

  “Why is it interesting?” I press.

  He just shrugs.

  Come on, I beg silently. Give me more than that, Liam.

  I press on. “They’re saying it was arson.”

  This is a lie, of course. The full investigation on the fire hasn’t been publicly released yet; in fact, I don’t know if it’s even been completed. But judging from the way Liam’s eyebrows shoot into the air, he seems to believe me.

  “If that’s the case, then whoever did it was very sloppy,” he says. “You don’t hear about many arson cases in this city. That’s bound to attract some attention.”

  Liam’s poker face has faded completely. His back is rigid, and his arms bristle with tension. His body is taut, like a rubber band stretched to the breaking point. Ready to snap.

  As I study him, the realization washes over me like a crashing wave, followed by an unexpected feeling of relief. Liam seems legitimately shocked by the news, which can only mean one thing: he didn’t have anything to do with the fire. But it’s clear from the look on his face that he knows exactly who’s responsible.

  And now, so do I.

  My mouth opens softly, eager to ask him more, to entice him to incriminate his parents.

  But before the words have the opportunity to leave my lips, the empty chair beside me scrapes outward suddenly.

  “Excuse me,” asks a woman in a syrupy-sweet tone. “But is this seat taken?”

  My jaw nearly drops. I know that voice. I’ve spent the last fourteen years with that voice.

  I crane my neck toward the dark-haired woman, with her cherry-red dress and lips to match, as she takes a seat at our table. Her cheeks dimple as she beams at us both.

  My cousin. My co-conspirator.

  Miranda.

  10

  “Sophia, it is such a surprise to see you here!” Miranda says, leaning over to throw her arms around me in a rib-cracking hug. As we embrace, she presses her lips into my ear and whispers urgently: “Try not to look so shocked, or he’s not going to buy this.”